


I Walked All Night

by DownInTheGutter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcoholism, Dark, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: s09e13 The Purge, Season 9, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 12:58:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1227211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DownInTheGutter/pseuds/DownInTheGutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam leaves, and Dean can't deal with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Walked All Night

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me.  
> The title is taken from an amazing song by the Cramps I was listening to while writing this fic.

_No, Dean, I wouldn’t._

After a week of Sam trying to avoid Dean and Dean trying to drink enough to not think about Sam’s words, things got worse.

They weren’t getting anywhere near solving the whole angel problem, Gadreel was gone with the wind, and Sam made up his mind.

‘Dean?’ he asked from the doorway. Dean lifted his gaze from his glass.

Sam took a couple of steps towards the table. ‘I’m leaving, Dean.’ He said, voice steady. He had this pinched, prissy look on his face, the same he always had when he tried to make a _very important_ point and show Dean he was _being serious_. Dean always hated that look.

‘Sam.’ _Don’t leave me, Sam. I’m so sorry, Sammy. Please don’t leave me._ He was sure Sam knew what he wanted to say. But he didn’t. He just kept on staring at him.

Sam turned around and left the kitchen.

The next morning Sam walked out of the bunker with a backpack, a wad of cash and still fuming after an argument with Dean on the way out, jaw aching from a punch Dean dealt him after Sam called him a fucking alcoholic and told him every minute spent in the bunker made him sick.

The first thing Dean did after he heard the doors slam was to pour himself a glass of whiskey. And then he poured himself another. And another. He drank till he passed out on the kitchen table. He woke up the next morning still drunk and barely made it to the bathroom in time instead of throwing up on the floor. He thought about calling Sam. He needed to call Sam. He drank instead.

Every day was looking the same: wake up on the floor, the couch, or if he was lucky, the bed, try to keep down the bile rising in his throat, drink, maybe eat something, if he hated himself less than usual, and then drink until he passed out again.

Sam called him two months after he left. _Sam’s coming back, SamSamSam_. Dean’s heart was pounding when he picked up the phone.

Sam only called him to tell him ‘I’ve met someone, Dean.’ And after a moment ‘I think it might get serious.’ Dean didn’t say anything.

‘So, how are you doing, Dean?’ Sam asked.

Dean knew he’s only asking because he feels like he should. That Sam should pretend he cares about him. Probably has been doing that his whole life. ‘I’m fine, Sammy. I’m good.’ and after a moment added ‘I’m happy for you.’ Because that’s what Sam would want to hear.

Sam cleared his throat, said ‘Yeah’, and hung up.

‘Bye, Sammy’ Dean said to the empty room. He threw the cellphone against the wall hard enough to make it shatter into pieces now scattered all over the floor. Then he grabbed an empty bottle and threw it. And then the lamp. And then the chair.

Dean was sitting in his now ruined room, leaning against the nightstand and thinking he’s never felt so miserable in his life. He started laughing then, uncontrollably. He was laughing so hard he cried.

He started going to bars after that. Got laid a couple of times. Before the phone call he tried to avoid that, because he felt like he would be cheating on Sam, which was stupid, because Sam left him. _Sam left him_.

Sam called him again, six months after he left. Dean was lying on the couch with an empty glass in hand when he heard the ringtone. He half staggered, half crawled to the kitchen table to get the phone. ‘Sammy’ he breathed into the phone as soon as he picked up. ‘Hey, Dean’ Sam said quietly. It was such a relief to hear Sam’s voice after so long. He thought he’ll never hear it again. ‘Listen, Dean. It’s getting serious. I think I’m going to propose. I thought I should tell you that’. Dean’s throat closed up. ‘Dean?’ Sam asked hesitantly after two minutes of silence. Dean cleared his throat ’That’s great, Sammy’, he said, his voice rough from disuse.

‘So, uhm… You still hunt?’

‘Yeah, Sammy. Same old’ Dean tried to smile, but his muscles wouldn’t work and it came out as a grimace. Well, Sam couldn’t see him anyway. He didn’t want to worry Sam. The little venomous voice inside his head said Sam probably wouldn’t be worried anyway.

Now that he thought about it, and that’s all he ever did when conscious, he should have seen the signs. That fucking heaven thing a couple of years back. Dean’s heaven consisted of lifetime with Sam. Sam was his life. Sam was heaven. Sam’s heaven… was every moment he spent without Dean.

He stopped going to the bar.

Dean started drinking even more then. He started having nightmares every time he got a few hours of sleep. Probably the alcohol. He stayed in the bunker, drank until he passed out, had a few hours of restless sleep filled with nightmares, woke up, drank again, passed out, woke up. He slept for 12 hours a day and drank the remaining twelve.

He noticed his hands were constantly trembling when he couldn’t pour whiskey into a glass, spilling it all over the table instead. He stopped bothering with a glass then and started drinking straight from the bottle every time.

Fortunately the bunker was fully stocked with alcohol, as the last time he tried to drive to the store he nearly crashed the Impala. And well, the clerk was not too keen on selling whiskey to a guy with two weeks’ worth of unkempt beard, bloodshot eyes and smelling like a liquor store.

The bunker was a complete mess – empty bottles and food leftovers on every available surface, sticky counter tops, shards of glass from when he knocked a bottle or two off the table and trash were littering the floor. He also might have broken a chair or two when he smashed them against the walls. Not a big deal. Nothing really mattered anymore.

It was getting harder and harder to get drunk enough to become blissfully numb, not to mention drunk enough to pass out. It got easier when he stopped eating completely.

He thought about writing Sam a letter. If Sam was ever going to do what he was about to do (please Sam don’t ever do it), he’d like to get a letter. Not that it would help much, but it would be something. He actually did write a letter eventually. Not that he could send it, Sam never gave him his new address. He was probably scared Dean would barge in on his new life and try to drag him away on the hunt. Ruin his life again.

Dean burned the letter a day after he wrote it. It was something he would want, not Sam. Sam didn’t want what he wanted anymore. Maybe he never did.

Dean made up his mind.

He was practically dead anyway. Sam was his life. And Sam was gone.

He put a gun to his head one day and pulled the trigger.

Sam didn’t find out until four months later.


End file.
